


On Dead Wings

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aegon is Rhaegar's Son, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Dragons Can Learn Parseltongue, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Ghosts, Multi, Parseltongue, i don't know what the hell i'm doing here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:18:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Triwizard Tournament, something goes terribly wrong. Harry wakes up in another world, with a dying mother dragon and four baby dragons to provide for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dying Dragon

 

.

 **Prologue**  
The Dying Dragon  
.

 

 

  
 

It's hot. Too hot.

Hariel Lily Potter groans into her arm, finding whatever is in her mouth to be carrying an absolutely awful taste. It's like an awful combination of burnt-to-charcoal bacon and the sandpit Dudley had once forced her head into on the playground at primary school.

Another groan parts her lips to escape, and the brunette sucks in a deep breath before attempting to roll over.

She hurts, she hurts everywhere, and she's got a big gap in her memory.

What the hell had she been doing before this? It must have been something important, she only ever gets injured when it's something important. Or Quidditch, but despite what Hermione thinks, Quidditch is important too.–

The soreness in her muscles is absent though, more a screaming agony actually, so Hariel's pretty certain it isn't Quidditch that landed her in this mess. Though judging by the feel of wood beneath her fingers, there's every chance it involved a broom.

With another muffled whimper of pain, Hariel finally manages to roll up and of her broom, which to her absolute shock, is completely intact.

So, whatever makes her feel like she's gone six rounds with Dudley's fan and faced Voldemort right after, it hasn't damaged her beloved Firebolt. Which is good, a relief.

What isn't so good is that instead of meeting pleasantly dry, clean grass, she's rolled into something yucky.

Clenching her eyes shut and counting to ten, Hariel slowly turns her head and peels back her eyelids.

Instantly, she wishes she hadn't.

Everything comes back to her with the force of a sledgehammer.

The Triwizard Tournament, that damn dragon, being it that area and facing the giant beast down. Her sheer panic, clutching at her wand with one hand, broom in the other and wishing that she was anywhere but there.

And then, then there had been pain.

She'd blacked out, Hariel thinks, staring in horror at the liquid that currently dampens her hand and shirt.

Yolk, a sickly colour of semi-clear yellow intermixing with fleshy pink, stretches out from the shattered remains of an egg a little larger than Hariel's head. Between her and the shell, a very obviously dead baby dragon rests, it's tiny form lying broken not even an arms length away.

Hariel bites on her lip, trying not to cry but it is a failed effort.

Oh god, whatever she's done has killed one of the dragon's babies.

Oh Merlin, Hagrid and Hermione are going to hate her. Just like everyone else already does.

It's not fair, she didn't want to be in this tournament anyway! She's clearly not ready for it!

Tears stream down the corner of her eyes, the brunette pushing back the pain and forcing herself up onto her hands and knees.

A wave of vertigo washes through her mind with ruthless force, Hariel instinctively upchucks the merger contents of her stomach. Her abominable protest the motion, but her body ignores them, forcibly continuing to heave against her will, until all that passes by her lips is bile, escaped down the corners of her mouth to gather and drip from her chin. She wants to collapse again, face first, but her brain manages to forcibly push her body back until she rests on her heels instead.

It smells of vomit and off egg, the scent of death overlying everything and Hariel really wishes she hadn't sat up and back.

Because now she can see it's not just the one dead baby dragon.

There's other eggs too, making five in total, stretching out before her like a morbidly scattered trail. Each is surrounded by a scattering of broke shells and splattered yolk, and more tears stream down her face.

What were they thinking, using real dragons eggs in the tournament? Where was the considerate thoughts towards intelligent life?

It doesn't matter that dragons are known wizard killers, it doesn't mean that these babies should have suffered for what amounts to wizarding sport.

Hariel whimpers, body shuddering and muscles shaking as she sits there in terror.

 

 

 

She's not sure how much time she spends staring at the trail of death before her, it would probably be far longer had a sound not knocked her from the trance.

It's a broken, wheezy noise, the kind Hariel would only ever expect a human to make should their ribcage have caved in.

As the sound originates from the dragon she had, however long ago, been facing down, Hariel feels her muscles spasm as she freezes in terror.

But the beast does not snap at her, a jet of fire does not come racing towards her.

Instead, sad yellow eyes flicker over at her form, as if beckoning her closer.

Hariel is hesitant, but then the dragon gives a wet cough, blood oozing out from between its large fangs, and Hariel understands.

The dragon is dying.

She remembers being in that position, basilisk poison running through her veins and scorching her insides, and as much as she had hated Tom Riddle in that instance, part of her had been glad she wasn't dying alone, without a single soul to watch her pass on.

Perhaps- No, Hariel's almost certain the dragon feels the same way.

Her body protests every damn motion, but she forcibly shuffles it the last few meters, until she has managed to cover the space between her and the dragon's head.

"I'm sorry," she hacks out, drawing in a shaky breath as she does so, "sorry that we've both suffered for something we didn't get asked about, that we got pulled into. I never wanted to compete in this stupid tournament."

The sun is burning hot on the back of Hariel's neck, and for a moment she marvels over how well the bobble has managed to keep her hair up in a ponytail. No doubt soon her tanned skin -an oddity, Aunt Petunia had called her, the daughter of a red hair should never have had such a tan- will darken even more.

She has no idea where she is, no idea where she could possible be to experience such heat in November.

"I'm sorry about your eggs, but if it's any consolation, I think I'll probably die out here too."

The dragon snorts and with great effort, it lifts one of its gigantic wings to reveal four carefully stashed eggs.

"You managed to save some," Hariel whispers in awe, unable to find the energy to remain up any longer.

She flops onto her back, in the process spotting a trunk lying in the dirt not too far away.

It takes a moment of staring, which is followed by blatant hysteria when she recognises the trunk as her own. What the hell it's doing here, Hariel doesn't have a bloody clue.

Maybe their accident wasn't so accidental after all.

"I'm glad you managed to save them," Hariel breathes, arms stretched wide across the ground.

The sun sits high in the sky, midday, and she wonders if it brings the dragon any relief. Certainly it only tortures her, the heat building no matter the stray wind.

The dragon growls low in her throat, and when Hariel turns to her, she's terrified to realise the beast's mouth is glowing with fire.

But it's an accepting kind of terror, certain with the belief she will not manage to get away, to dodge the blow in any form. She belatedly realises her wand is still clutched tightly in one hand, but she doesn't know any spells to protect herself from dragonfire.

Even if she did, Hariel finds her mind startlingly blank in this moment, once again facing death and knowing that she will not be able to escape it this time.

Only, the flames do not burn.

They curl around her body, not welcoming, not accepting, but coming to an accord.

Nothing is said in words, she cannot hear a voice in the fire, but the message is clear.

Hariel did not live through any form of goodwill from the gods, she had not magically survived the fall.

The dragon had saved her.

Knowing it would die unless she left all her eggs to crash to the ground, the mother had opted to save both as many as she could, along with the magical human. Because Hariel was her only chance to see her surviving eggs hatch and grow.

The fire dies down and with tears in her eyes, Hariel forces herself onto unsteady feet.

"I'll do it," she swears, even though she has no idea how she will do so, if it's even within her capabilities to look after and raise those four baby dragons currently hidden by their mother's wing, "I'll look after your babies. I know you saved my life for that reason only, but I will do it anyway."

The dragon is still watching her with exhausted xanthous eyes, but it gentle nods its head, as well as it can manage.

The Horntail may have only saved her because it is the best chance her eggs would have, but it's enough for Hariel. She'll see them raised, for it is what he owes the dragon.

Her resolve firm, the witch stumbles towards the dragon's wing, and though she gives a defensive growl of warning, the Horntail reluctantly relents and allows Hariel to climb in and join the eggs.

There, the witch rests, mind spinning with all the facts she has recently learned of dragons, mentally recalling all that she can from the Norberta fiasco.

Alongside four dragon eggs, Hariel Potter sleeps.

 

 

 

Hours later, after the sun sets and the moon rises and falls, the dawn breaks, and the mother dragon dies.


	2. The Tribulation Trials; Part 1

 

 

Leaving the dead mother dragon upsets Hariel.

 

She's been hiding in shade of her cool wings for the past few hours, but now as the sun starts to set, the witch has to face the harsh reality stretching before her.

She's in an open wasteland with no idea where she is and no civilisation in sight. Not only has she got to provide for herself, but she's got four eggs, soon to be four hatchlings to look after.

It is with this thought in mind that Hariel edges out into the seemingly endless heathland, the ground set ablaze by the dusking sun. Brilliant orange shadows stretch across the earth, clawing out as the sun steadily drags them into darkness, the sky bleeding a harmony of purples, pinks and reds. It would look pretty, had the horizon not been so flat.

Hariel cannot see a single city and that had her innards clenching in anxiety. Given the state of the dragon -the dead dragon- Hariel has been in no rush to eat, has been far too depressed to do so. With her wand, water is easy to come by. Food is not going to be the same way, though with the summoning charm she might be able to call it to her. If anything at all lives in this desolate wilderness.

Wiping her face free of tears, the last Potter alive makes her way over to her trunk, eyes scanning the horizon and almost recoiling in shock. She has absolutely no idea how this has happened, but it appears as if it is not only Hariel's trunk that has come along to this strange place.

She spots her bedsheets from Gryffindor tower shaking in the wind, half of her bathroom products -soap, loofa, along with her favourite body butter that now runs dangerously close to being empty- and a random variety of other everyday objects. Several pairs of shoes; the favourite ankle boots that always sit at the bottom of her bed when not in use, the three pairs of sandals Hermione had sent her for her birthday, though the pair of high-heeled peep-toed monstrosities that Lavender had attempted to pass off as actual shoes when she'd gifted them to Hariel were gratefully absent. Hariel's pretty sure they'd have been of no use anyway. Inside her trunk, all of her Hogwarts uniforms rest, alongside a great majority of her summer clothes, a handful of winter clothing in comparison.

It will not be for years to come until Hariel concludes the miscellaneous items all had one thing in common; a great deal of recent exposure to her magical presence.

 

 

In the present time however, Hariel focuses her efforts on packing everything that has come along with her -including the thick book on healing she'd preemptively borrowed from Hermione under the assumption she'd be getting quite hurt in these tasks. Whoops- into her trunk. It only just all fits, and only due to the sight expansion charm she had installed just that summer, having wanted to ensure her precious Firebolt's safety.

It is only after a moment of consideration that Hariel returns to the dead dragon's side, nose wrinkling at the smell that is starting to build. It feels as if every inch of her flesh is crawling, cringing away from the death that lingers around the once great beast.

A wave of her wand, the holly wood warm beneath her fingers, has the eggs charmed to stay at optimal temperature. She can practically hear Hermione chanting the spell, an almost religious chorus preformed by the bushy-haired girl during their first year and the Norberta fiasco. Hermione had spent a great deal of time looking up fireproofing charms, along with other spells that would make dragon-raising if not easier, than at the very least safer.

It is with that in mind that Hariel carefully extracts one of the eggs from beside it's dead mother's side, cradling the football sized shell close to her chest. It feels burning hot to the touch, her fingertips scorching. But it is a welcomed heat in the face of the fast approaching night; Hariel squirrels the egg further into her embrace.

They will be safest wrapped in her Quidditch robes, Hariel thinks, recalling all of the softening, cushioning charms upon the fabric. To ensure bludgers only broke bones, and instead didn't tear right through a Quidditch player.

Making her way over to the trunk, Hariel slowly lowers the unhatched dragon into its depths. It is a process she repeats three times more, noting that the final egg feels heavier. A big baby, she thinks, near hysterical.

When all four are secure, Harry hits her trunk with a feather light charm, wrapping the bedsheets around the handle before she slaps that with a sticking charm. She ties the other end of her makeshift rope to her belt, so that her luggage will trail behind her as she flies to civilization.

Merlin, she hopes she doesn’t pass any muggles on the way. Surely whatever country she is in will have registered her intentional magic by now?

Then again, no one had shown up for the dragon that had so blatantly crash landed here.

Sighing, Hariel takes another look at the Hungarian Horntail who had saved her life, sacrificing her own in the process.

Dragons are creatures of fire, she thinks, wand shaking in her hand. Perhaps she should be sent off in the flames.

 

The dragon corpse blazes in the dark night's sky. By this point, Hariel is already flying westwards.

 

 

Hariel's first run in with slavers is a bloody affair that she considers better suppressed than remembered.

While her wand is perfectly capable of producing water to drink, food presents a problem. She honestly does not want to steal from other people, will go out of her way to not do so. For the first few days, she's managed to get by, given the amount of sweets and biscuits she'd found at the bottom of her trunk.

By day four though, they're all long gone, and no matter how much land she covers upon her trusty Firebolt, she has yet to find any kind of city.

The surroundings are scorching hot, to the point where she can only travel in the handful of hours that consist of dawn and dusk. During midday, she summons up a shelter from the sandy earth, and cradled within the shade, she spends her time flicking through the books that had appeared here alongside her. There's nothing in them that could possible relate to her current situation, even if she has learnt a few new spells.

It gets to the point where Hariel summons one of the large birds down from the sky for dinner. Her lesson with Moody reflects back in her mind, the acidic green of the curse, that it's illegal to use on humans. But it's also painless death.

And she really needs to eat.

Avada Kedavra leaves her wand in a bolt of brilliant colour, the vulture like bird dead before it can even lift its head.

It takes Hariel far longer than it should to cook and eat the bird; she's too busy throwing up after having used that curse. Her limbs shake from the bubbling emotions that rise in her chest, that leak from the corners of her eyes to splash upon the dry earth.

In the distance, the line of volcanoes she had flown over two days previous waver, a shaky visage beneath the heat of the sun. It's so warm here.

Fanning at the edge of her shirt collar, Hariel tucks her legs over one another, skirt spilling out around her thighs.

It hurts.

She has no idea where she is, she has no company, and no one has come to find her. So far there had only been one plus point, one good thing to come about ever since she's walked out of that tent to meet the dragon.

Hedwig is here.

Hariel doesn't have the slightest idea how she got here, she hasn't the slightest clue how the beautiful white owl had appeared, given she'd been nowhere near the First Task. But Hariel's thankful for it.

Even if it's infuriating that the owl cannot seem to find anyone.

The first time Hariel tried sending a letter off, her beloved familiar had just flown in circles for several minutes before landing again, shaking her head. This has happened each time Hariel attempted sending Hedwig off with a letter.

She still doesn't like thinking of the implications.

 

 

It's as she's sat, the curling smoke slowing in its lazy rise from the fire's embers, that someone grabs hold of her.

Hariel screams as the rough hands pull and reel her back and away from her trunk, away from her bag and away from her shelter. She doesn't understand what these men are saying, what language they're snarling at her.

But she sees the terrified men and women -oh Merlin, there's children in there too- trapped in cages, collars on their neck, and she understands that at least. The Dursleys treated her like a slave; Hariel will never go back to that life again.

She cannot reach her wand, hands hold her arm in too awkward a position, but the holly stick is not what answers her call.

Instead, a familiar weight settles into her palm and Hariel swings blindly. The spray of warm red liquid that showers her left hand side, the yowl of pain, lets her know she's connected. She stumbles forwards, spinning on heel and gripping tighter at the handle that rests within her palm.

Gryffindor's Sword sings in the midday sun, silver blade gleaming and rubies glittering.

There's an arm on the floor, detached from its previous owner, and there's blood everywhere. She doesn't understand what the man is screaming, but Hariel knows the bite of basilisk venom, she knows how quickly it kills. The dying man's companions stare in horror, watching as the blood pools upon the burning sand, as he twitches and screams.

There's a moment of silence as Hariel levels Gryffindor's Sword against them, arms shaking as adrenaline floods through her body. Unfortunately, the men clearly fancy their chances, for they race towards Hariel. 

The blade cuts through the air, through skin and muscle. It only takes one cut, and Hariel has to focus on keeping back and away. At one point she gets a nasty cut of her own to the shoulder.

But none of their blades are tipped with the deadliest poison in the world, and soon enough, they are all dying on the floor.

 

 

It is as if everything has been moving in fast-forwards and has only now decided to slow down.

Her muscles scream in pain from the vicious effort she has demanded of them, the cuts that litter her arms sting, but are nowhere near as bad as the searing gash on her shoulder. Blood soaks through the light fabric of her shirt, warm and sticky upon her sweat laced skin, the scent vomit inducing.

Hariel has to turn away from the men, some dead and others still succumbing to the fatal poison, before proceeding to empty her stomach of the bird caught a mere hour ago. The others that these dead men have captured are silent, she can feel their wide eyed gazes resting heavy upon her shoulders. But for all that they judge her, probably fear her, they are still people trapped and taken prisoner.

So she takes everything, all the horror and self-disgust, all the terror and shame and guilt and the tiny bit of pleasure -glad they're dead, glad they'll never hurt anyone again- and she locks it up. All packed up and shoved into the same corner of her mind where the scent of Quirrell's burning flesh and Tom Riddle's dying screams hide. That little patch of her mind that she refuses to acknowledge, because if she does she'll have to accept the fact she's a murderer. Just like Voldemort.

Instead she swallows around her dry tongue, dropping Gryffindor's Sword to the floor, where it dissolves in a slow glittering gleam of light.

Not that it matters, the sword will apparently always answer her call, not matter where she is.

Slowly, so as not to startle them, Hariel approaches the cages, tied up to horses and she forcibly steels herself against the horror filled eyes. Unlocking the cage is impossible without a little help; the keys no doubt on one of the men she has slain. It only takes a quick wave of her wand though before the metal padlock resigns with a click, a muffled thump as it drops to the ground.

She can't face them though, so Hariel slinks back to her cave.

 

 

When she surfaces as the sun dips to kiss the horizon, she's horrifically startled to realise the whole group is still there, waiting for her.

Hedwig sits upon her shoulder, head cocked to a side, as if considering the crowd and their presence here. Whoever these people are, they do not speak the same language as Hariel, nor do they appear to have any inclination to make it out of here on their own. Instead they mull around, death reflecting in their dull eyes.

But there is a very slight glint of hope, buried far beneath the depths. It gleams whenever they look upon her.

Hariel swallows, throat as dry as the surrounding landscape, and for a moment it seems as if the earth is pressing in upon her from all sides. How can she possibly be responsible for all these people? How can they expect her to lead them free from this desert?

Something niggles at the back of her mind, a tickling sensation that reminders her this scenario is familiar. She's only ever read holy texts at school; Aunt Petunia wouldn't have her 'devilish' hands upon the Lord's book.

She wonders what the Dursleys would think now, with these people looking to her as is she is their saving grace, their messiah. Perhaps books will be wrote about this moment, Hariel thinks, near hysterical. It will either be a triumph or a tragedy.

She's bitter; it's been days and no one has come for her, no one has saved her and they clearly don't want her any more. They believe she entered the tournament and have condemned her ever since. Perhaps it is time the Girl Who Lived made a name for herself outside of her infanthood legacy.

Swallowing is difficult, her threat still parched. Slowly though, Hariel steps forwards and raises her hand. Once it's up there, attempting to garner attention, she's not quite sure what to do with it. Should she shout? She clearly doesn't speak their native language, but maybe one speaks English?

"Er, hello? Does anyone here understand me?" Hariel's head tilts to a side slightly, her arm slowing in its gentle wave, glancing between each face and waiting with sinking hopes.

"Slower.. please." It's stressed, heavily accented, but so clearly English that Hariel near bursts into tears.

The man who speaks is perhaps middle aged, though wears his years far more obviously than what even Uncle Vernon did. He's led a tough life, and Hariel wonders just how bad it has been for the man to showcase that many lines.

"Right," Hariel nods, forcibly slowing her pace, trying not wince because it is exactly how she imagined talking to a child. It reminds her of the foreign visitors back and Hogwarts, the ones who have brought with them so much trouble for her.

"Where is the closest city?"

The man's bushy brows lower, resting heavy atop his eyes, before slowly, he points into the horizon. Thankfully in the same direction she has been heading.

"My name's Hariel," she says, careful with her pronunciation and even more cautious of using her full name.

"Lady Hariyl?"

"No, it is just Hariel."

The man nods, turning back to the newly freed slaves that have gathered around them. The crowd is a bit overwhelming, but they are not here for Hariel's legend. They congregate around, listening to the rapid fire words that leave the man's mouth.

His voice is raspy and Hariel recalls they've probably had very little to drink, maybe whatever they've been able to forage from their captures, but there is no water out here. Not far from Hariel's wand that is.

She watches this man, the only one to speak her language and interpret her words address the mass, feeling like an outsider. These are not her people. Clearly they are not witches or wizards, for they look upon the wand she has holstered with fearful awe, they teem around her, but they keep a respectful distance at all times.

"Safety?"

Startled from her thoughts, Hariel stares at the worn man for a second before she slowly nods. She’ll get them somewhere safe, she couldn’t possibly do anything else.

"Your name?"

"Mylner, Lady Hariyl." Yeah, he's never gonna get her name right.

"I'll get the lot of you to the city, find you some place safe to stay…" It's the least she can do. If she's focusing on something, focusing on keeping these people alive instead of panicking over her own situation, Hariel thinks that just maybe she can learn to cope with whatever's happened, learn to accept it. And once she has accepted her situation, then perhaps she can go about rectifying it.

"Please, easy words, I not good at High Valyrian." Valyrian? Is that what these people call English?

Offering the man a slight smile in return, quite unsure of what to say, Hariel adjusts her grip on her wand. Projecting her movements, she reaches out and takes a mild hold of his chin, feeling the whiskers scratch against the supple pads of her fingertips as she gently parts his lips.

"Drink," she orders, a flick of holly filling the man's -Mylner's- mouth with fresh water. Drink he does, gulps greedily at all she offers until his thirst is quenched.

Once her voice among the people is well, she has him call the children forwards for their own drink. As much as she is grateful for the distraction they provide, Hariel hopes she will be able to drop these people at the next town over. Looking after a group seems far more work than she is prepared for, and quite frankly, she doesn't fancy accepting such a duty for too long.

Just until they reach the next town, she mentally affirms.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Politely ignoring that English has gender in the language unlike High Valerian. It's a flaw, but I've elected to ignore that for the sake of the tale)
> 
> I adore this idea, I really do, but it's so damn difficult to write. So I figured I'd get out what I have so far because it really has been too long.


	3. The Tribulation Trials; Part 2

 

 

 

They arrive at the city just as morning breaks, the warm light of day embracing the night's sky and sending it's dark skin blushing blue.

With that first glimpse of the city, that first glance, it is the first moment Hariel realises there is something wrong.

It looks just like something out of Dudley's graphic novels.

The buildings, well the style of them are old, like something out of a desert fantasy dream. But the actual structure of the buildings; Hariel would hesitate to call them new, but they're certainly not the hundreds to thousands of years old she'd expect from such architecture.

During their walk -she had balked at the idea of presenting flying to the muggles, keeping her trusty broom hidden in well of her trunk- Hariel has slowly learnt a handful of names.

The young boy, no older than seven with curls of silken gold and stormy blue eyes that sit within a galaxy of freckles is called Lazoar.

Wearing the same aureate hair that curtains her hazel eyes, Lazoar's mother watches her son's every move with an air of apologetic mistrust; her name is Firana. She fiddles with the small necklace that sits around her collarbones, clearly it is dear to her.

There is no sign of Lazoar's father, and Hariel shudders to think what must have happened to him, especially given how she found the two of them in the first place.

Right now, stood upon the outskirts of this city, Firana holds Lazoar close to her bosom, apprehension and worry painted upon the delicate features she shares with her child. That she looks to Hariel for safety; it worries the dark-haired witch.

She cannot help them much more, cannot stick around given that she has a life of her own to get back to.

Sure there are probably very few that actually want her back, that are willing to welcome her return.

But she has to try.

There's Sirius, Sirius who would do anything for her, who lives as a wanted man for her. If all else fails, if everyone else crumbles and leaves her stranded, she is sure her godfather will never leave her side. She's all he has left, her and Professor Lupin.

Which is why Hariel must work at getting back home.

"Where will I find some maps?" She addresses her question to Mylner, the only one to understand English. He's nowhere near fluent, but he knows enough to answer Hariel's questions. It could be so much worse, she could have been so much worse off if the slavers hadn't captured him.

She feels guilty for the thought, but she's glad he's here with her.

"House of books," Mylner states, though it's obvious by his expression it isn't the way he wished to phrase it. The limited vocabulary between them grates, to the point where Hariel has been straining herself to attempt picking up the actual language here.

Only the word she is pretty sure to mean 'no' remains in her head though, and that's not really going to be a great deal of help. Not that Hariel believes she'll be here long enough to need use of the local language; it'd have just made things so much easier in the short term.

Still though, Hariel's smart enough to understand what Mylner is attempting to say.

"The library," she whispers, the words ghosting from her lips. It's such a Hermione thing to say and Hariel is quick to push down the thought of her bushy haired girl, the compassionate bookworm who probably hates her by now, now that her hands are coated in the blood of baby dragons.

She focuses instead on the here and now, on having to explain to Mylner that she will be leaving them now, that she has to find what she is looking for. She's already learnt what happens when you help people; it is all she seems to have done since arriving at Hogwarts and look where that has gotten her.

Still, the feeling persists that these people will not accept her leaving so easily.

Not that they can stop her though.

 

  
Before she leaves, Hariel takes a moment to trade one of her galleons in for the local currency, a golden coin that sits heavier and slightly smaller in her palm. Unlike in Magical Britain, this place and it's money are not protected from spells.

Several duplications later, and Hariel is sending those she's rescued on their way, each with five golden coins. She'd seen a woman exchange a handful of copper coins for a stay at an inn, so she assumes she's sent the would-be slaves off with enough cash.

While a part of her wishes to check up on them already, these people who entrusted their safety to her, the sensible part of her brain -that sounds suspiciously like Professor McGonagall- insists she prioritise herself right now, and her own situation.

As such, Hariel spends a good deal of time wandering around the town, taking the time to purchase a skewer of questionable meat and vegetables for dinner. It tastes far better than her roasted vultures; the addition of something other than meat is fantastic.

Holly wand in hand, Hariel lets it lead her towards the city's library, a professional looking thing with its own guards. They even have genuine spears. It's worrying, the implications of the culture, of the people she's seen.

Hariel doesn't want to acknowledge the thought forming in her mind, pushes it back and down, shies away.

Hedwig flies overhead, a speck of white in the otherwise clear blue sky, and for a moment, a simple moment, she can pretend she's just visiting another school's magical library, much like the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students are.

 

  
Her ability to do so dies a brutal death in the face of the maps she finds.

It shatters all her hopes for a swift return home.

 

 

  
It takes Hariel three days to accept what the maps are telling her, that this is not her world.

Not a place she recognises.

Still, she clings to the little hope that perhaps this is another hidden society, maybe even hidden in the Atlantic Ocean, with magic shielding the whole continent -Two continents? Three continents?- from discovery.

It's probably a vain hope, probably just Hariel grasping at straws because if her little hope is false then she's in a lot deeper trouble than she'd first expected.

Hedwig's soft hooting is the only sound that prevails from the past. She dare not say, dare not think, that it is one of the few comforts from her world.

Even the rooms within the inn are absent of any real familiarities. No toilets, no single bathroom adjoining the room; the mattress is terribly uncomfortable.

Stretching out the muscles in her back, Hariel slouches into the lumps of her bed, clutching at the edges of her tome. She's bought some of the local clothing, the less risqué ones at that. Already she misses her ripped-up jean shorts, she most certainly does not miss the eyes that had lingered upon her form as she went through the city, so she no longer wears the shorts.

There had been a fair few books in English, hidden in that library.

Beneath the safety of her father's cloak, Hariel had liberated the ones that seemed most helpful. Even now her head spins with all the information of the land she's in, the lands that surround her.

The time period…

It's archaic.

There was an empire that spoke English -Valyrian- but it seems to have fallen to what Hariel's Primary education insists is a chain of volcanic eruptions. Even that was hundreds of years ago, and after the documentation of such events, the language goes… Funny.

Hariel can only pick out every fifth word or so, it's like they abandoned sensible English and have started using something different -pig English as opposed to pig Latin?- instead of sticking with its derivation.

It leaves her wanting to pull her hair out.

Instead, Hariel forcibly scrapes the curly locks back into a high ponytail, challenging her inner Hermione as she began looking up all the information she could on this… This country. This continent.

It's not another world, it's not.

It doesn't matter what magic is capable of, no one has ever warned Hariel of the possibility of such travel, and surely if there was a chance of this happening they would have done, wouldn't they?

Squinting down at the pages hurts her eyes, and she sits within her inn room for far too long.

Well after the candlelight has burnout, well after the scent of melting wax has faded from the air to be replaced by the crisp aroma of the night's chill. Reading by wandlight, struggling to pick up every fourth word, slowly but surely starting to make some kind of sense of the text. One family survived 'The Doom', conquering the next continent over on dragon-back.

The thought has her eyes flickering over to the trunk, the hardwood an ominous structure within the four walls she has temporarily set up as her camp. On dragon back… Where these people descendents of others that'd come from England and got stuck here, just like Hariel?

For a moment, that dreaded thing called hope flares within the pits of her guts once again, only to be ruthlessly crushed as she gets further and further into the reading. Here the pages are new, the writing crisp. She cannot understand the whole thing, just that the 'Targaryen' family rule 'Westeros' no more.

Optimism crumbling, Hariel flicks the book closed, sinking back into the bulges of her mattress, lumos dying from the tip of her wand.

The soft ruffles of Hedwig's feathers are suddenly so painfully loud and Hariel just wants to drown it out, to just slip into the welcoming hold of sleep.

Even at Hogwarts, she'd had Ron and Hermione.

Only, she hadn't had Ron since Halloween, and now she doesn't have Hermione here.

It is once again Hariel Potter against the world; it's like she never left the Dursleys at all. She has to fight once again, fight just to know what's going on around her, just to gain any form of knowledge or forever remain nescient.

Her eyes are open, ignorance in not acceptable. She is better equip than before though, now with a wand and a broom and with her father's cloak. She might have to fight, fight to know what's going on and what's happened to her -what will happen to her- but that's something Hariel has prepared for ever since learning her own name.

Hogwarts, Hogwarts just put off that battle for a bit. Offered a glitzy, glamorous alternative that was snatched away from her.

Wherever she is, Hariel's going to carve something out that no one can take away, she's going to mould herself into something, and then she's going to get back to Hogwarts.

She ignores the little voice that questions if she really wants to return. She doesn't have time to open that train of thought yet.

What she had managed to take away from those books, was the general opinion of dragons.

Fabled things, lost to time. Terrifying things, used to wage war and conquer.

Dangerous beings.

If Hariel is to keep her oath to the mother dragon, she cannot raise the hatchlings in this city, in any city. Not until they grow big enough, strong enough, to look out for themselves. To ensure no one will try to use and abuse them, as Hariel herself appears to have been.

She leaves Roathos at first light, a stolen map tucked into her trunk and magically marked to recall its exact location, to relay directions to the city.

Hariel flies and flies and flies, until her thighs ache clenched around the shaft of polished wood, until her fingers shake from the constant grip in the face of the wind's bite.

The ocean is all consuming as she soars above its surface. Constantly in motion, the waves rock back and forth, frothing white foam spitting up from its depths to kiss at her booted toes. It's odour is unfamiliar, so unlike that of Black Lake. It's of salt, the feel of seaweed samples used in potions, the taste of iodine stinging the back of her throat.

Stretching out before her in an endless wasteland of blue, Hariel considers her options.

To fly to a new continent and risk a complete lack of English -Valyrian- in hopes of finding someone more fluent, or sticking around in this place -in Essos- with Mylner easily reachable.

She's run into situations so many times, all headfirst, that perhaps this time it is best to play safe. The burning urge to explore is there, but Hariel forcibly pushes it down, forcibly retreats from the idea. Chess was never her forte, and it never will be.

But right now, she needs to at least consider playing the long game, that much is clear.

 

  
When Hariel returns to Mylner, she finds the man has invested her duplicated money wisely. He, along with a handful of the other would-be slaves, have purchased a large building, and appear to be steadily converting it into an inn. An inn better located and better cared for than the one Hariel currently frequents.

Still though, for all that those she has saved look to her with worship in their eyes, Hariel tries to ignore it.

Instead, she approaches Mylner, whom slows in his sanding of wood to look upon her with joyously tired eyes.

"Magic," she says, a simple statement that has his face slackening in surprise, gaze lingering upon the holster that cradles her holly wand.

Scuffles permits the silence as the would-be slaves continue to work around them, though their eyes linger, heavy and knowing. It sends crawling sensations scuttling up Hariel's arms, shivers creeping down her spine as sudden and blaring as a clap of thunder.

Mylner's eyes are old as he looks back upon her, chapped lips taunt as he arranges his thoughts.

"Valyria," he rasps, halting the pretence of work in order to answer her enquiry. "Valyria... ruins..." he gestures, hands curving through the space between them, as if searching for the right phrasing.

Instead, Hariel reaches into her pocket, retrieving the map she has liberated from her trunk for this reason alone. Spreading it out upon the countertop, she blows gently to ensure no sawdust damages her only chart.

Mylner's thick brows shadow his eyes as he gazes upon the drawing, one weathered finger coming out to circle around a specific location. Back in the general direction that Hariel had arrived from.

"Valyria," he says again, a heavy finality to the title that has all of Hariel's attention, "death."

In addition, he shakes his head, as if trying to signal that no good would come of venturing to Valyria.

As things stand though, this is the first place Mylner points to when she asks of magic, was the place most oft referred to by the books she has read.

So, to Valyria she will go. After all, Hariel is not like the rest of them; she has magic to combat whatever curse is likely resting upon those lands; maybe it's just some form of muggle repelling ward like what surrounds Hogwarts... only deadly to those who do not possess magic.

That is the kind of ward she'd be unsurprised to hear surrounds Malfoy's home.

"Thank you, Mylner."

Tired eyes stare back at her, never wavering as Hariel folds her map back up and pockets the parchment.

There has been many times in Hariel's life, more so when she was at Hogwarts, that adults have shook their heads, have stated to do what she plans would be a folly. That it wasn't in her best interest, that it shouldn't be done.

Yet, things had never turned out drastically wrong.

She pushes back the thought of Quirrell's melting flesh beneath her hands, of Ron's pale face overlapping with Ginny's as they both lay upon the chessboard/chamber's floor, of the small glowing orb leaving from between Sirius' parted lips and floating up into the morbid grasp of the dementor.

Of dead dragons and dead slavers, of blood upon a silver blade and yolk scattered across the sands.

She pushes it all back and away, unwilling to give it any thought. To do so would be her undoing.

"Safe stay."

Eyebrows near knotting together, Hariel glances at the man before her.

He wants her to stay? She wouldn't exactly call it safe here; already she has seen three muggings happen in the streets, has seen slaves parade up and down with their collared possessions trotting after them. There is nothing about this place that seems safe, why Mylner thinks to remain here rather than take her chances with the magic riddled Valyria ruins, she has no idea.

Yet, at the sight of his sad smile, Hariel recalls this man can speak her language no better than a four year old, for all that he is clearly not unintelligent. He is not asking her to remain here, where it is safe, but to instead stay safe upon her journey east. Of course.

"I shall. Thank you," Hariel dips her head, flinching back at the face Mylner wears. As if she has broken some kind of protocol by offering her thanks.

Merlin, Hariel hates this place.

 

 

She sets off at dusk.

Walking to the edge of the town, Hariel has exchanged her boots for a pair of simple slip on shoes. It is far easier to shake the sand from her soles now, the tiny grains of grit and dirt are constant irritants. Hariel is English, an English teenage who has never once visited to seaside. Sand is foreign to her, especially the desert kind of sand that reaches further than the eye can see here.

Perhaps there is land like Africa further up, with a savannah where the mascot of her house prowls dangerous and free. It would be quite the thing to see a lion, she thinks, in its natural habitat and not caged within a zoo.

Dudley's birthday comes to the forefront of her memory and Hariel smiles grimly.

The only good thing to come of this is that she might actually be rid of the Dursleys should she be stuck here for a significant amount of time.

There's always one silver lining in disaster, it seems.

 


	4. The Tribulation Trials; Part 3

 

 

 

Her knowledge on volcanoes is sorely lacking, having only briefly glanced over the topic as a primary school child.

Still, Hariel knows enough to recognise when the very air around her is poisonous, noxious gases given off from whatever funky stuff the volcanoes below the earth are producing. It's the kind of knowledge that comes from handling dangerous plants in herbology, and she has listened to Neville enough times in the past to know the kind of effects poisonous plants can result in. She will not take her chances with the very air around her.

So she halts her journey, finding a suitably sheltered outcrop within which she can settle down and read. The spellbooks that Hermione bought her -the ones she's been so sure she'd have all the time in the world to learn until suddenly she wasn't in her world any more- are incredibly helpful now that she no longer has the bushy haired girl herself to consult. Her fingers flick through page after page, the charm she's searching for right near the back.

The bubblehead charm, one that keeps clean air and nothing else around the head. It's perfect, if a little difficult. Still, necessity breeds productivity, and Hariel manages to succeed with the charm by the dawn on the next day. She sleeps while the suns sits heavy in the sky now, unwilling to keep braving the scorching temperatures when she needs not do so. If the chill of the desert air just so happens to remind her of Hogwarts, of home, then so be it.

It is within this makeshift shelter she takes two days to fully master the bubblehead charm, already reminded of just how close she had cut it with the summoning charm against the dragon. An event that ended in more than one life lost, and Hariel stranded in this god forsaken place.

Running a hand through the loose mane of her curls, the brunette lets out a frustrated sigh before she goes about manually binding her hair back in one tight braid. She's still mentally running through the charms she's performed before the Triwizard Tournament, trying to recall if there's any at all that could have landed her here. Yet, it is only the summoning charm, that along with a basic-witch spell to put off one's period for a little longer that she remembers. Joy of joys, she'll have that to content within a few days too. Wonderful.

Merlin damn it, will she ever catch a hint of a break on the horizon?

Tying off the end of her braid, Hariel lets out a low sigh, her mind wandering back towards Roathos; are Mylner, Lazoar and Firana okay? What about the rest of them, all those people she helped. Are the okay too? Perhaps if she doesn't find what she's looking for here, she could spare the time to visit the lot of them.

While there stands an intimidating language barrier between them, Hariel cannot deny their treatment of her, their open admiration and adoration, has been a great change from what she had been exposed to at Hogwarts ever since the Goblet coughed up her name. Getting attached is something she shouldn't allow to happen, look how having friends has already turned out, only one to stand by her.

God does she miss Hermione.

These people don't know her as the Girl-Who-Lived though, so maybe if she's gonna be here for longer than she'd like, maybe it won't be so bad to get friendly with the locals. If she ever learns the language that is.

Never mind though, she'll worry about all that after she's taken a look around the centre point of magic in this world.

 

Even from just the ruins, Hariel can tell this place was magnificent.

An empire once stood here, towering and grand. Mayhap it is like looking upon the coliseums of Rome, on the half-fallen temples that have deteriorated physically in time but have grown nothing but grander in presence.

Even with the charm in place to hold back the noxious gases, Hariel can see the way corrosive air has steadily eaten away at stone. Or rather, whatever the past streams of lava and pyroclastic flows failed to claim. She walks forwards slowly, fingertips running over the surface of the crumbling marble, catching on the little nooks created from the chips long since fallen away.

It's ancient, a civilisation that prospered for far longer than Hariel herself can imagine, only to fall before forces not even humans can ever hope to control. Even the witches and wizards from Hariel's home, they've never managed to subdue a volcano, or protect against an earthquake. Nature is still as untameable as ever, and while it is pleasant to see something familiar in this world, she wishes it weren't so. Otherwise she'd be able to speak to the people here, to talk face to face with others and learn their secrets. Maybe they would have had the magic necessary for Hariel to return home, maybe they would not.

But she cannot picture any books ever surviving the catastrophe that occurred here.

These people though, these people were magic.

And if Hariel is sure of anything, it is that those with magic that died in tragic circumstances…

Well, there's sure to be a ghost or three around here.

 

She walks further into the once grand city, musing with each footstep over just how many had passed down the same route she now treads. There are no footprints here, the rubble long settled. Only as the earth breathes and the volcanoes wheeze does the dust shudder, shuffling about atop the crumbling forms.

Slowly sitting herself down upon the mound that was perhaps once a family home, Hariel calmly sets her trunk down, flicking back the lid as she does so. Within, still in the cradled hold of her many Quidditch robes, the eggs lay.

Recalling Norberta's egg and the need for a heat source, she ever so carefully lifts the eggs free of her trunk, settling them down together upon the far too warm earth. Mayhap she should start a fire to keep them in, just to be safe.

Looking at the four eggs that her life will revolve around for the next few months, be she still in this weird place or if she manages to get home, Hariel reaches out and gently runs her palm down the side of one egg, the surface perfectly smooth. It's hot to the touch, the same kind of feeling she'd have gotten from cupping a mug of hot chocolate between her hands.

There's cooling charms all over her body right now, the protective spellwork woven into every article of her clothing by a worried Hermione the only support she has in this horrid environment. If one discounts her magic that is.

Yet, while it's hot, Hariel doesn't feel like she's burning. Even through the noxious air, the sun still manages to kiss down upon the crown of her head, a basking warmth that has Hariel abusing the water summoning spell in order to keep hydrated.

Sitting down upon that outcrop, Hariel pillows her head upon one hand, arm support by her knee as the other continues to stroke at the dragon's shell. She needs to start heading towards the inner centre of the ruins, but summoning up the will to move just isn't happening right now.

"I suppose I won't get much chance to rest when the four of you hatch," she whispers, focused on the four little miracles that the mother dragon had managed to save.

There's no answer, not even the sensation of slight movement occurring from within the egg. She's so lonely, so far from home.

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Hariel brushes her hair back with one hand, the other reaching for her wand. Within seconds there's a fire crackling merrily away, the dragon eggs shelter deep within the steady flames.

And then it is time for Hariel to explore.

 

The vast majority of this place is ruins, shambles battered constantly by the weather and volcanic produce. Physically, there is little to nothing left.

The ground is hot beneath her feet, to the point she's had to enchant her footwear with a cooling charm. It still scorches at the outer-flesh of her soles though, despite the distinct lack of any burns. Hariel's not sure why that is, only that it's a blessing. She's had so very few of those recently. No, in the physical world there's almost nothing to these remains.

To her eyes though, to the eyes of a witch or wizard, there's others, lingering traces of history long since past.

Ghosts, there are a handful of ghosts that persist here, in these desolate remains. Hariel has known ever since second year that ghosts can be incredible beneficial; if she had questioned the cause of Moaning Myrtle's death just that little bit more, she'd have probably found the chamber so much faster, so much earlier -maybe they'd have hated her less if she could have stopped it all quicker that she did- than what she'd actually managed.

It's just... which one is she suppose to talk to?

Some of them have died in truly horrific manners; several have half the flesh melted from their bones, there's an uncomfortable number missing their hands and ears -the ones that upon closer inspection appear to bear the scars of a slave's life- and then there are those that have been killed by a blade, punctured through the chest of slain by a slit throat.

Worrying her lip back and forth between her teeth, Hariel walks down what had perhaps been a street of trading back in glory days of this empire; it certainly seems wide enough. She can almost picture stalls of fresh fruit, cuts of meat and merchants with silken cloths. It's like stepping back into the pages of history. Perhaps Hariel would feel better about it were it not for the fact she appears to be stuck here.

Stuck for the time being.

It takes her a moment to remind herself of that, which in itself is terrifying. Is she already growing complacent with the idea of being stranded in this strangeness?

Pushing the thought away, the witch centres herself, harshly recalling that she must focus on the here and now. She's in this dead land, a fallen empire that was once the heart of magic, that is clearly still regarded as the heart of magic. Her best bet for answers lies within this place. Hariel looks between the scattering of ghosts again, wondering what prompts them to remain in this place.

How many of them had faded away? Were there any that'd began their existence as ghosts here but travelled away to seek out answers from the rest of the land?

Sucking in the dry flesh of her lower lip, Hariel's eyes stop upon one of the ghosts.

He's not interacting with any of the others, seemingly content to ignore their fearful, hateful glares. He's older than Hariel, but not by much, ten years at most, more likely seven of eight. Though all ghosts are of a silvery pallet, his hair is strikingly light, as if it'd have been a very white blond, maybe even silvery blond during his life. And his features... the man reminds her uncomfortably of a male Fleur Delacour. Could make Veela exist?

Just like that, their eyes meet and Hariel's startled to see washed out purple there. Did ghosts retain a bit of colouring from their life? She can't quite remember.

The mauve eyes remain on her for a second, and though he looks far too well bred to cock his head to a side, he does appear surprised.

"How curious, you see us." Like that, the man rises, intangible hands brushes down the length of his tunic. It looks well made, not like the rags that the others are all dressed in, luxurious almost. "After so many years, I do suppose it is quite time for someone to appear. Tell me, how long has it been since the Doom occurred?"

Hariel has absolutely no idea what this ghost it speaking of. When tells him such, the man's lips twist into a mockery of a smile, allowing his head to tilt just enough that Hariel feels as if he's mocking her.

Her wand jumps into her hand, though she knows no spells that can touch a ghost. If students were ever taught such a thing, then unquestionably Professor Binns would have been long gone by now. Right now though, Hariel would give anything just to be provided with some kind of proof that Hogwarts is still accessible, even if it did come in the form of Professor Binns. She's at the point right now that she'd be happy to see his insipid form.

"I'm not from around here," Hariel stammers, watching as the man's eyes narrow even more, head shaking slightly from side to side. His weightless hair, falling just short of touching his shoulders and with slight waves, glides effortlessly with the movement.

"And the great Valyrian Empire falls into nothing more than droll history," he scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. While his upper arms are clothed by the fabric of his tunic, his forearms are exposed, and Hariel can see a handful of scars across the skin, stretched taunt of hard muscle. "Your name, girl?"

"Hariel Potter," she bites out, already reminded terribly of all those snooty purebloods form Slytherin, of all those know-it-all Ravenclaws who think they're so much better than everyone else just because they know a few facts.

"Hariel," the ghost muses, testing out the sound of her name upon his tongue. His accent leaks through in that moment, stressing the 'ri' of her name and not softening as much as he should upon the 'l'. "Not a particularly banal name," he concludes. "I am Maehanys Lentheos, Dragon Riders of the Valyrian Empire… Or I once was."

His smile is a wistful and brittle thing.

"Dragons… There aren't any dragons around now," Hariel murmurs, recalling the books she had read, the few she'd been able to understand anyway.

"The dragons have died out then? Not particularly impossible to believe, given the fall of Valyria. Creatures of magic are hard pressed to survive when the world runs dry of sorcery." Maehanys summarises, looking quite dispassionate about the whole thing.

Hariel wishes that another ghost had approached her, one that would be friendly, open and helpful. Instead of this one, who seems content to speculate on things and not allow her to get a word in edgeways.

"I have four eggs though, they're going to hatch soon." She can feel that in her bones, a deep-seated certainty that doesn't so much as scream at her, rather performs a harrowing song that remains forever in the back of her mind.

Yet, it seems for the first time she actually has Maehanys' full attention. He's straightened his posture now, no longer looking quite so relaxed and disinterested.

"Dragons eggs," he repeats, working the muscles of his jaw and Hariel is rather distracted by the motion. He is quite pretty, ghost or not, and the more she looks the more Hariel is sure he has to have some form of Veela blood within him somewhere. "Take me to them, prove you're worthy of my time."

Scowling at the tone, Hariel carefully stresses, "I don't need your help," and she doesn’t. It will be far more difficult to raise four dragons if she doesn't quite know what she's doing, and as a former Dragon Rider then perhaps Maehanys has an idea of what he is talking about. But by Merlin is this ghost rubbing her the wrong way; too smug, too egotistical.

"Four dragons? It takes a family branch to successfully raise one trained enough to be rode, and you expect to manage four upon your own?" Maehanys' voice is laced with mockery.

When Hariel turns on heel, fully intent upon making her way back to the dragon eggs and leaving this place for the day, Maehanys follows after her, walking beside her. Unlike Hariel, he leaves no footprints behind him in the ash and dust, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Standing almost a head taller than she, the dead Dragon Rider arches a shapely eyebrow in response to her clear snub of his presence.

"You don't fear death by dragonfire in the least, do you?" He questions, the washed out purple of his eyes considering her with far more intensity than Hariel feels comfortable with.

She wants to ask her questions, wants to know if there's a way -any way at all- to travel back to her home. Back to Hogwarts, even if they may all hate her at least it'd be familiar, at least she'd know the basics of her own damn country as opposed to being so Merlin-damn-it lost here, completely unable to speak the common language and having to rely on others to translate.

Death by dragonfire; she'd thought that was going to happen once, but the flames hadn't scorched her, hadn't burnt in the slightest. Now, now Hariel cannot drum up the courage to be afraid of such a  thing.

"No, I don't suppose I am."

"Fascinating," Maehanys drawls, but not in a way that reminds her of Malfoy. Malfoy always did it to undermine her, to highlight just how superior he is. Maehanys… it sounds as if he's both impartial and begrudgingly interested at the same time, if such a state of existence is possible.

Hariel says no more to him, does not wish to speak to him again.

There has to be other ghosts more welcoming than this fellow. Mustn't there?

 

When Hariel returns to her temporary camp, her stomach is starting to cramp, as it was wont to do every day she spent at the Dursleys. Where food was nowhere near as plentiful as it was at Hogwarts and she had to ration care-packages from the Weasleys. The Weasleys who have no doubt listened to Ron and believe her a liar and a cheat by now.

Swallowing is difficult, her throat dry and it's not from a lack of water.

"Dragon eggs indeed." Maehanys has not left, instead stubbornly tracing her path through Valyria.

Everywhere he goes, he receives the same looks from all the other ghosts; none of them have the same light colouring as he, not of them have the same clothes that indicate they were born of wealth and Hariel is starting to get a terrible sinking feeling. Part of her only hopes that this man has managed to isolate all of his fellow ghosts after his death and not before.

She doesn't like the implications of his character if that is the case.

"And it wasn't even a falsehood, they really are hatching."

Hariel's head snaps around and sure enough, one of the eggs within the fire is trembling.

"Fantastic," and Maehanys genuinely does sound pleased by this turn of events. "I've never seen a dragon hatch before, the mothers would never allow you close enough. The one time cousin Raegarys attempted it the fool died by dragonfire. Though given the lack of mother dragon here-" Maehanys breaks from his own sentence at this point, narrowed eyes locking onto Hariel.

"How did you come across these eggs?" The tone is low and threatening.

Hariel sees no point in responding though, for it is at that point that the first eggshell cracks.


	5. The Tribulation Trials; Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right... Well, the version of this on ffnet is a Rhaegar/Hariel now.. But this is gonna stay Aegon/Hariel.
> 
> Which means I've probably got some tweaking to do on here to make it work, but please bear with me.

 

 

 

_He remembers fire. Fire and brimstone._

_The rumble of the earth underfoot, like the greatest dragon to exist has awoken, torn from slumber._

_Perhaps it was slaves that dug too deep, axes that struck not at rock but at scale._

_Perhaps it was their attempts to divert the flow of molten rock, the lava that could run rivers, that could ruin a slave mine with just one wrong tremble of the ground._

_He's uncertain._

_The cause though, the cause no longer matters._

_Valyria wiped from existence, an empire felled by nature itself, dragons and their riders alike dying, nothing before the primordial forces of the world._

_When he wakes, it is to a state in which he is inconsequential, incapable of effecting the physical world no longer. His every attempt passes through the surroundings like smoke through fingers._

_Time, time is difficult to track._

_He tries at first, counts each rise and fall of the sun, each lunar cycle, but at times… his mind gets lost… no, he gets lost. It's like his mind is a labyrinth, a twisting maze that he's never had the time to get lost in until suddenly time is all he has._

_Then it all becomes hazy._

_Nothing grows within the ruins, the dust only shifts as the wind howls and the earth breathes and there is nothing but the surroundings of a desolate past._

_Death is a trap, he is trapped within death and there is nothing he can do. Nothing._

_It blurs together, the ghosts of the slaves whom died (be it by mining accident, by dragon fire, by sacrificial magic) linger with fear and scorn in their eyes and he is the only true Valyrian around._

_He does not think to look, to search for others, does not even seem capable of the motivation for movement._

 

_Not until his eyes meet green that is._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

There are four baby dragons.

Hariel has no idea if the hatchlings are male or female, recalls that not even Hagrid -mad genius on all things creature- had been able to tell with Norberta, so settles for concluding that all four are male until proven otherwise.

The four rest within the dancing flames of her campfire, curled up alongside one another and Hariel finds herself sitting beside their nest, hypnotised by the gentle rise and fall of their ribcages, the fluctuation of the torsos that indicate all four are alive and well.

Maehanys has been silent since their hatching, his etiolate eyes utterly focused upon the newly hatched forms. Just as her own have been.

Hariel has no idea how long they both remain there, just watching those little dragons and the clear proof that all four are alive. She has no idea what her unsavoury company is thinking, but Hariel feels pride, warm and thick, curl within her chest. She’s managed the first step, managed to get the four eggs she’s been entrusted with to hatch. They’re out of their shells and now they can grow, they can learn about the world around them.

 

It is only as the sun is setting within this empty wasteland that she’s brought back to reality.

Her stomach grumbles, clenching tightly in upon itself and Hariel realises she’s eaten nothing since her arrival within these ruins hours ago. How long has it been? She’s quite forgotten but it’s very clear she’s going to have to go and gather some food. It is not just her now, now she has four hungry new-borns to look after. The very few times she’d dared to dream of looking after new-borns, she’d been imagining ones of the human variety. What do baby dragons even eat anyway? Will they accept fish? Because that’s the only thing Hariel can think she’ll be able to acquire with steady succession. There’s only one way to find out.

Climbing to her feet, Hariel makes for her trunk, retrieving the Firebolt she’d had resting against it.

“Where are you going!” The sharp, demanding declaration is so far from a question it takes Hariel a moment to realise it is she who is getting addressed.

Spinning around, she eyes Maehanys, his ghostly form now also standing with his transparent fists clenched at his sides.

“To find food. Which, you know, I need. To keep living. Food the dragons’ll need.”

“You can’t just leave them! They’re newly hatched!”

Hariel feels her eye twitch, her own fingers curled up into the palms of her hands even if physical violence will solve nothing for either of them. Their fists’ll just pass right on through one another if she even tries.

“Well you keep an eye on them then.”

“They won’t be able to see me! Don’t you-”

The rest of the pompous asshole’s words are drowned out as Hariel mounts her broom and powers into the sky, whirling up and up until she can no longer see the campfire.

Hedwig is with the dragons, she’ll keep a watch on them because she sure as hell doesn’t trust Maehanys with such a task.

 

That is how it continues for several days.

The dragons accept the fish, thankfully, though only after the meat has been treated to a thorough roasting. Even Hedwig eats it, though she clicks her beak in a clear indication that she’s displeased by the lack of bacon. Given that Hariel herself is consuming seaweed alongside fish (it’s supposed to be good for you, she recalls from Petunia’s ‘health kick’), she doesn’t think her feathered friend has much of a right to complain.

What they both have something to complain about though, is Maehanys.

The ghost is still around, stubbornly remaining despite the clear indication that Hariel doesn’t want him here. Though after a week, it’s to the point now that she can only accept his obnoxious presence with ill-hidden reluctance. She’ll never admit that it’s nice to have someone fluent to talk to.

Or rather listen to; once he’s been prompted, Maehanys is more than happy to ramble about the greatness of the Valyrian empire. It’s one of the only times that he opens his mouth and proves himself interesting. The pictures he paints with his words are clear, almost masterpieces with the descriptions he offers up. She can picture it; incredible buildings with the most detailed architecture rising from the ruins that surrounds them, the people of Valyria walking through the desolated streets.

The empire’s military composed of the dragons that flew freely through the skies, directed by their bonded riders, terrible weapons of war and yet the might that protects their way of life.

Hariel’s not sure if the dragons can see Maehanys, if they can hear him, all they do right now is sleep, eat and tussle with one another. There’d been one day when their sharp little claws had dug tight into the flesh of her shins, startling Hariel enough that she’d ended up tripping into the fire. Maehanys had laughed in delight when he saw she didn’t burn, proclaiming her a true Valyrian, no matter her colouring.

Perhaps that had been the point where he’d accepted her completely, for the next day he’d enticed her back into the maze of ruins with the promise of secret rooms, rooms that were drowsed so heavily in ancient spell-work that they may have survived the Doom. The only stipulation though-

“Are you positive I should be bringing them along?”

The four dragons are all scrambling around her feet right now, full of energy and it’s making Hariel nervous. She’s never taken them from the campsite, not yet, and while she knows there’s not another person around for miles, who knows what other dangers they could fall before?

“The dragons will be fine; do you honestly believe I would ever allow them to be endangered?” Maehanys grumbles, too well-bred to showcase his irritation with his body language but not quite polite enough to keep the annoyance from his face.

Hariel scowls in return though he makes an exceptionally valid point. If there’s one thing Maehanys’ has proven, it is that his deepest desire is to see the Valyrian empire arise again. Given that she’s the only person capable of acknowledging (suffering) his presence, that task rests solely upon her shoulders now. Whether she wishes for it or not.

“The spells of flames will treat you well given your non-flammable state,” he murmurs, head tilting to a side as he considers her. “Were my lips still drawing breath, perhaps I’d have taken you for a bride.”

Hariel’s mouth drops open, astounded by his sheer audacity, grinding to a halt to stare at the back of the still moving ghost. Had he just-

“Taken me for a bride!” Hariel repeats, outraged by the sheer notion. As if she is some form of prize to be claimed, some kind of, of, cow to be bought at the market.

“Yes. Though your colouring leaves little to be desired, your status as an unburnt would have made you extremely valuable in our glory days.”

“I am not property that can be claimed whenever you wish!” Hariel thunders, fists clenched and a blade of wind tears into the flesh of the earth between them, cutting a deep gash into the dry land.

There’s a moment of silence as Maehanys considers her words, that same gloating smirk stretching across his lips. The air is painfully dry, even through the bubblehead charm Hariel wears; she wonders what the dragons will think when they gain their first taste of the ocean, of the humidity that prevails along the coastline.

“Mayhap not now, but certainly within the Valyria I called home you would have been. Now though,” Maehanys steps closer, floating across the wound her accidental magic has lashed into the earth, his hands clasped behind his back and face falsely pleasant. “Now you shan’t accept any husband not already approved of.”

He’s striding off before the implication that it’s his approval such a suitor would need hits her. Her teeth grind together, as if she’s gotten loose grains of sand trapped in the molars and Hariel wishes she knew some kind of exorcism spell more than ever before.

She still follows after him though. After all, better the devil you know.

 

Slowly, Hariel comes to know what is essentially wandless magic. It is not easy, sweat often pours from her brow, she crashes upon her pillow wind fingers trembling and her mind pulsating against the edges of her skull.

But soon enough sparks begin to gather at her fingers tips, little wickers until they catch at the oxygen in the air and they burn. It is not just oxygen that surrounds her though, Hariel forcibly reminders her before she can become to enamoured with her success. There’s all sorts of gases being given off in these wastelands, no doubt things far more combustible than oxygen. This will be a lot harder when she leaves this place, Hariel insists.

But still, she’s quite unable to help herself, staring at the flickering tongues of flames. They lick as her fingers greedily, a pack of Crups slathering away as if her hands are drowsed in bacon fat and no the salt of the sea.

“Well well well, a dragon-raiser and sorceress. Such a talented young woman.”

Flicking a poisonous glance across to Maehanys, Hariel tries her best not to despair that she can no longer see Malfoy within his every action.

She’s been here for a month now, if not more than that and already she’s starting to lose her connections with her world. Maehanys had just laughed at her when she asked after other worlds, insisting this was the only world, barring that of the gods. As he’d spoken those words, his washed-out eyes had lingered upon her broomstick, a contemplative look crossing his face, only to be wrung from his features mere moments later.

“We can’t all be the after-image of all-conquering long dead,” Hariel mutters beneath her breath, knowing Maehanys will hear her but uncaring right now. Instead her eyes are focused solely upon the dragons.

The little beasts watch the fires cupped in her hand greedily, smoke curling up from between their tiny fangs, the same burning heat no doubt coiling about in their own tiny chests. But my have they grown fast.

She recalls how quickly Norberta had matured, from that tiny little broken-umbrella like creature to that nasty beast they’d shipped off to Charlie. That had just been a handful of months; nothing really when it’s compared to the fact Hariel will be watching these four grow until they’re completely matured.

Two years.

Two whole years of her life will be spent caring for these four, ensuring they’re capable of looking after themselves so that Hariel can fulfil her debt to the mother dragon.

“Oh my,” Maehanys drawls, eyebrows lifting in clear surprise, “you weren’t terribly attached to the owl, were you?”

Hariel snaps to attention, having not even noticed that one of the dragons had veered off from the main group.

It’s the grey one. He’s sprawled across the earth, muzzled flecked with blood.

Hedwig’s blood.

There’s a severed white wing, there’s feathers everywhere. So much blood; how much blood can be store within such a small body?

It is with a numb sense of cold fury that Hariel snatched up her wand, whipping it at the grey beast; she doesn’t even pick a spell, just lets her rage fuel her.

There’s not satisfaction in her gut when the little beast goes skipping across the earth like a stone. Certainly, it’s the right colour for it.

She’s not thinking, barely capable of registering that the ghost is screaming at her. Hariel mounts her broom and she leaves.

She cannot stay there, she can’t.

 

Hariel flies.

She flies and flies and flies until the sun is beginning to set. In her haste to leave she’d left her trunk behind, but no part of her wishes to return for it. Not when those beasts are there. Not when- not when Hedwig had been torn apart by one.

Barely managing to brace for impact, Hariel crashes into the earth, kicking up plumes of dust as she goes skidding across the dry dirt, hands curls around her Firebolt. The Firebolt that was a gift from Sirius. A gift like Hedwig.

Hariel screams, releasing the polished wood so that she can beat her fists against the ground.

The sky above her thunders, lightning cracking across the pallet that is too grey. Clouds that should have been white like her beloved owl and not the storm-grey of that blasted dragon.

Her cheeks are wet, eyes burning from the grit she has gotten in them on her terrible landing or from the tears that stream down her face; Hariel’s unsure. Hedwig, Hedwig who’d been her constant companion throughout her adventures in the wizarding world, the one being who had never once turned upon her, had never betrayed her.

Hariel has never known hurt, not like this. She would tear her heart out if she were capable of it. The one thing, the one living, breathing thing she had of the world she has been so desperate to return to has been ripped away from her, literally torn to pieces. Just like her heart.

 

She wakes face down in the dirt.

For a moment, her hands grope blindly for the pillow, the down and feather filled material that has never failed to give her a comfortable night. The distinctive lack of its presence certainly explains the stiffness in her neck. It’s the telling, sticky wetness of her cheeks brushing her wrists that has Hariel’s eyes snapping open, recalling the whole horrid past-day in an instant.

The triumph of fire embracing her fingers, the dragons watching on. The death of Hedwig.

Hands curling into fists, Hariel moans out a broken sob into the earth, unwilling to draw up the strength to crawl her way up into a seated position.

“So, this is it. All that trouble over a single rat with wings.” Maehanys. Why has he even followed her? Is he truly that incapable of understanding his company is not wanted?

The arcs of her nails bites into the meat of her palms, the ghost of tears long fallen drying her eyes. She’s got nothing left to give on that front, she’s cried herself out. There nothing in her that wishes to continue on; Hariel has no idea how she draws the strength upon herself to roll over and face the sky. It’s dawn now, a scorching red dying the sky. As if she has not already seen enough, blood the sky bleeds too.

“Her name was Hedwig.” Hariel protests, ribcage clenching as she draws in dry breath after dry breath. Her throat hurts. She must have been screaming.

As condescending as ever, Maehanys leans over her crumpled form, a look of mock concern and sympathy plastered across his features.

“Oh, woe is me, I got the name wrong. The pest fell to the predator. You are a fool, girl, if you did not think they would pounce upon your precious rat at the first opening.”

Merlin, she hates this bastard. It’s even more painful to acknowledge she needs him; he’s the only one around that’s capable of metaphorically slapping sense back into her. Some kind of blasphemous cross of Malfoy and Hermione. What a nightmare.

Even though the chances are slim to none, Hariel prays her bushy-haired friend never ends up spawning a child with her Slytherin rival.

It’s a stinging sensation greater than any she’s experienced so far to realise he’s right. Hedwig had been prey to them. It is Hariel’s fault her beloved owl is dead. She hadn’t protected her well enough. The dragons, that dragon, it’d just been following its instincts. It doesn’t help the empty feeling within her stomach, one that no amount of food will ever fulfil.

A low snuffling is the only thing that drives Hariel to sit up, her eyes widening when she spots the defeated, struggling forms instantly crawling towards her.

The dragons have followed her. All this way, all throughout the night. She’s their primary caretaker, their only caretaker, and she’d abandoned them. Even Petunia hadn’t thrown her away, no matter how much her aunt had clearly wanted to.

Fuck. Will she ever stop making mistakes?

Maehanys is still ranting at her.

“Prongs.”

“-no hono- excuse me?”

“The brown one,” Hariel says slowly, reaching into her pocket, the one she’d taken to storing small cuts of fish in, “he’s Prongs.”

As the dragon in question nuzzles pathetically against her thigh, Hariel offers him the first chunk of meat she can get her fingertips on, pressing it to his teeth until he eats. She runs her palm over his warm body, feeling the soft scales that will surely harden over time.  

“The red is London. Mion for the blue. And… Bermuda for the grey.”

There. She’s named them. They are unquestionably her responsibility now.

At least as these beasts are the top of the food chain, she won’t have to worry about anything eating them in the future.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this is going, only that it'll just be Harry for a few chapters maybe, depends. I don't know when GOT/ASOIAF cast will start showing up. Forgive me, updates will be sporadic but hopefully longish (5,000-7,000ish words) chapters.
> 
> Fingers crossed writing goes well,


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